


...And Despair

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Godstiel: Cas as God, M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Castiel fucks everyone <strike>over</strike>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...And Despair

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Godstiel, and thus dub-con.
> 
> Prompts: God, mine, tongue, messy, wings, domination, dynamics, hierophilia.

Castiel sits in a chair, a normal chair, wooden and straight-backed. It's not a throne, but for all the white-edged power crackling silently under his skin, humming from his body, filling the air like faith in a church to something profane, it might as well be.

He's surrounded.

Balthazar stands behind him, motionless, expressionless.

("Am I not your example?" Castiel asked. His voice was distant, but his hand on the back of Balthazar's neck was close and firm, and Balthazar didn't have to think before he let spill the expected _Yes, Cassie, yes, please, yes._ )

Rachel--that was her name, Dean thinks, the blonde angel who yelled at him and Sam once for taking up too much of Cas's precious warmongering time--stands behind his right shoulder. Or maybe, Dean thinks, looking from her to Balthazar and seeing how exactly alike they look, straight-backed and perfect, it's just the body that had been Rachel's, the face that had been Balthazar's. Straight and perfect like clothes fresh from the cleaner's, starched and pressed and empty.

("What do you need of me?" Rachel asked, kneeling before Castiel with all the humility of willing service. Overcome, he grasped her shoulders and raised her to her feet and pressed his mouth to hers; her lips parted under his and he tasted, for the first time, subservience that was not his own.)

Behind Cas's left shoulder is Anna, silent and staring. The red of her hair is an unnerving shock of colour against her pale face, in this pale, featureless room. The blue of her eyes is luminous and vacant.

(Anna was as warm and wanton with Castiel as she was with Dean, coaxing him on with needy abandon, spreading her legs and sinking him into her body as if he could fill a hollow place deep inside her. She surged under his hands, wrapped him in physical pleasure, and as they moved against one another, he forgot that she was everything he was supposed to abhor.)

Meg lounges on her side at Castiel's feet, arm bent, head propped on her knuckles. Her eyes had lit up when Dean arrived. They'd all looked at him, their eyes flickering to him and away in a single motion as if nothing in any of them cared enough to put in the effort of further attention; Meg was the only one who'd _reacted_. Now, she's grinning lazily, tapping her cheek with the tip of one finger, like a new toy's been dropped into her lap and she can't quite decide how she wants to play with it.

(The new god found her in the depths of Hell, buried his hand in her hair and dragged her to the centremost circle that didn't belong to Lucifer, that was visible to all the others. There was a table there, rough-hewn and covered in rotting, inedible food; Castiel swept the ruined dishes onto the floor and bent her over it, kicked her legs apart and slotted himself between them, held her down by the back of her neck as he fucked relentlessly into her. His coarseness had her slick and open long before his thick cock breached her cunt, but she whined and writhed and bucked beneath him all the same, swore at him as if she wasn't getting off on his power over her just as much as he was.)

Dean gives his former friend a wary look and gestures at his entourage. "Are they really...here?"

"They are with God," Castiel replies evenly, idly, like he's commenting on the weather. At his feet, Meg frowns and cranes her head on her neck to shoot him an incredulous look; with a faintly begrudging air, he amends, "The demon came to me herself."

(When he pulled her up against his chest, wrapped his arm around her waist and held her tight to the brutal thrust of his hips, she arched her back and reached up, dug her hands into the crest of his wings and used the added leverage to drive herself viciously down onto him. He cursed at that-- _cursed_ , his voice low and harsh in her ear--and his other arm snaked up over her torso, between her breasts; he wrapped his hand around her throat, his fingers clenching, his blunt nails scoring her flesh as he slid his open mouth along her jaw, grazed the straining tendon in her neck with his teeth.)

Meg turns back to Dean, her mouth quirked in good humour, one brow arched high. "Nobody wants to be in Crowley's shoes right now," she says, sliding her legs against each other, readjusting her balance. "Better to serve in Heaven, these days. Besides, Clarence and me? We have an understanding."

Dean looks back to Castiel, whose expression is serene. "That would be an overstatement."

(His feathers were like silk in her hands, clean like fresh water, warm like sunbeams. She clawed her fingers into them and pulled, angled her head back on his shoulder and opened her mouth filthy-wide, licked wetly at his lips and tongue while she rode his cock like she couldn't get him deep enough. And he _fucked_ her, fierce and forceful, his hands tight enough to thin her breath, tight enough to bruise. The pain/pleasure sent her over the edge fast and hard; he followed moments later, shoving her back down onto the table and holding her there as he jerked and spurted hot inside her.)

Meg rolls her eyes. "Fine," she drawls, "we have an _arrangement_. Relax, Dean," she adds, managing to sound simultaneously bored and amused. "He doesn't touch them. He doesn't even let them watc--"

"Be quiet," Castiel says mildly. In other circumstances it would be funny, the way Meg chokes on the rest of her words.

(He slipped out of her and backed away, leaving her sprawled breathless and sweaty across the table. She didn't straighten up; instead, she reached between her thighs and soaked her fingers in their mess, slicked the mixture of his semen and her wetness onto her clit, rubbed herself and shook with aftershocks. She could feel his eyes on her; she could feel all the eyes of Hell on her, and some of Heaven's, and she pleasured herself shamelessly under their sight, flagrantly. Deliberately.)

Dean's skin prickles. Castiel is watching him. Castiel hasn't glanced away from him once. "Why am I here, Cas?"

Castiel stands. For all they react, the bodies grouped around his chair might as well be mannequins. "Why do you think?" he asks.

(Behind her, Castiel said her name. His voice was _wrecked_ ; Meg came again, and again, and again.)

Dean lets Castiel kiss him, lets him slide his hands beneath his shirt and pull him close, lets him push their hips together in a slow and dirty grind. He likes it; _fuck_ , he likes it. He doesn't know why.

On the floor behind them, Meg smirks.


End file.
